


Rendezvous

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Prince of Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Romance, prince of omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22374790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take a break from their duties in Egypt for some alone time together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630693
Comments: 20
Kudos: 202





	Rendezvous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prince of Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848095) by [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/pseuds/WhiteleyFoster). 



> Written for Whiteley Foster's DTIYS challenge, which was open to fanfic as well, based off the picture they posted.

“A-zira-phale …” Crowley sings, picking a path through the rushes growing high along the banks of the Nile, winding around the labyrinthal rows to the secluded hut his angel messaged they should meet. “A-zira-phale … where _are_ you?” Farther and farther he walks till the drone of humans building and shouting and existing soften, fading beneath the gentle lap of water kissing the shore. Crowley strolls leisurely through blades that grow taller as he steps past (a little demonic miracle of his own) to better shield the woven dome with the faint angelic glow inside. “You said you wanted to see …”

Crowley ducks through the narrow doorway … and stops in his tracks.

The vision that greets him would arrest the heart in his chest if he had one.

He swallows hard in its stead.

“… me.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Hello, Crowley.”

The angel doesn’t move an inch while his demon looks him over, basking in this moment he’s been eagerly waiting for. He has traded the modest clothes worn by the people where he lives for the kind of lavish – and _revealing_ – garb that Crowley seems to prefer.

Showing too much skin and dripping in gold is how Aziraphale once described Crowley.

Showing too much skin and dripping in gold is what Aziraphale is now – bare chested; jeweled bracers binding his wrists and ankles so blinding he’s not entirely certain whether Crowley is attracted to him or them. The shendyt wrapped around his waist, pale blue like Aziraphale’s eyes, hangs longer than Crowley’s, secured at the hip by a winged medallion – just a touch of angelic vanity.

“Aziraphale …” Crowley sighs, yellow eyes traveling from the top of Aziraphale’s head down to his toes and back again too many times to count “… what on Earth are you wearing?”

“We’ve determined that it would be a bit difficult for you to blend in on the side of town where I live. So I thought I would try my hand at blending in on yours. For the afternoon at least. What do you think?” Aziraphale raises his arms and twists side to side to give Crowley a better look. “Do I blend?”

“Definitely,” Crowley says, his cheeks turning pink as he approaches, too afraid to touch Aziraphale in fear that he’ll dissolve into the sand - just one of a dozen dreams Crowley has had about Aziraphale that have yet to come true. “I could get used to seeing you like this, angel. You’re quite the temptation.”

Aziraphale chuckles, lowering himself carefully to the hard-packed ground. He extends a hand to Crowley, and Crowley rushes to join him. “Maybe I should be doing _your_ job then.”

“No,” Crowley says, unable to keep his eyes off him. “You’re too good. Too pure. That’s part of what makes you irresistible.”

“Irresistible, huh?” And now Aziraphale's cheeks have gone pink.

“Yes.” Crowley reaches for him slowly, fingertips caressing only the air around his body for as long as he can stand not touching him. But Aziraphale doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to waste time they don’t have. He scoots closer, closing the gap between Crowley’s hand and his own. Crowley takes it – takes it and holds it like he has no intention of ever letting go. His gaze settles there, on their joined hands, fingers threaded, nothing obvious indicating that his is demon flesh and Aziraphale’s angelic. Here in this hut, in these forms, they’re simply men.

Men, dare he say, in _love_?

“Stay in my temple with me,” he whispers, pulling Aziraphale into his lap, bucking his hips gently so the angel can feel the hard press of him against his rear. “I can shower you in gold and jewels, linens as soft as your wings, fine wine and exquisite food …”

Aziraphale shakes his head, turns shy eyes away from the utter adoration in Crowley’s voice. “Oh, no. I don’t think all of that extravagance would suit me.”

“Why not? You deserve it, more than anyone I know.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Aziraphale says instead of admitting it’s mostly the way Crowley acquires his wealth that concerns him. Crowley could miracle himself chests overflowing with gold, call to him hidden treasures from all over the world. But playing the part of Snake God of the Egyptians, Crowley gets his riches from the hands of Pharaoh.

Hands stained with the blood of thousands of innocent slaves.

But Aziraphale isn’t here to judge Crowley. That’s not why he asked him to meet in secret.

“Do _I_ suit you?” Crowley asks, chancing a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.

One to his jaw when he doesn’t object.

Then another to the soft, sensitive skin of his neck.

“Yes.” Aziraphale exhales deep, bends to Crowley’s kisses, silently begging for more. “Very much.”

Crowley’s lips pave a trail down the column of Aziraphale’s neck to his collarbone, each one signed and sealed by the tip of his tongue dancing over the same spot. But he stills at the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck when he hears him gasp – a sound that should fill him with unquenchable heat. The razor’s edge of desire. Instead, it spirals through him like a chill breeze, freezing him to the bone. “They … they won’t let me keep you.”

“Who?” Aziraphale asks with a sarcastic huff. “Heaven or Hell?”

“Either. Take your pick,” Crowley returns so sadly it nearly shatters the shard of hope burning in Aziraphale’s chest for the two of them.

“True,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “But we’ve never been big on following their rules, have we, my dear? Not when it comes to you and me.”

“I suppose not,” Crowley agrees, albeit unconvincingly. His lips don’t move again, neither to speak nor kiss. Aziraphale won’t have that. He leans back a hair to catch Crowley’s eyes.

“Let’s not worry about Heaven and Hell this afternoon,” he says, running his fingers down the length of Crowley’s spine, delighting in the shivers he uncovers with his light touch. “Not now. It’s only you and me here. Let’s enjoy the time we have.”

“And how should we enjoy it?” Crowley asks, struggling to break through his melancholy.

“With your arms wrapped around me, and my body so full of you I can barely remember where you end and I begin. Do you think you can do that?”

Crowley’s eyes, wonder wide, snap to Aziraphale’s face. They don’t make love that way. Normally they go the other way round. But Aziraphale has chosen this for some reason.

Who is Crowley to deny him?

Crowley smiles at his angel, love and affection lifting his cheeks, but with a hint of wickedness at the corners.

Of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Yes,” Crowley says, working open the winged medallion, removing this symbol of Aziraphale’s true nature and setting it aside. “I can do that.”


End file.
